


the final act of a dying autumn

by songofdefiance



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Final Fantasy XIV: A Realm Reborn, Gen, Liberal use of the echo, Patch 2.0: A Realm Reborn, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofdefiance/pseuds/songofdefiance
Summary: It’s one thing to hear about the Garleans subjugating Eorzea in one fell swoop - to joke about it in strained voices and half-hearted laughs.  It’s one thing to share a dark look with Baderon when he hands her a tankard of ale and a shake of his head when she tries to shove her gil at him.  It’s one thing to hear (and partake in) the angry whispers that circulate throughout Limsa Lominsa.It’s another thing entirely to watch imperial troops march through the streets.
Relationships: Fordola rem Lupis & Original Female Character, Lahabrea & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Y'shtola Rhul/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 12





	1. prologue: it really came to this

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to... whatever my latest brainchild is. AKA, the AU where the XIVth successfully captures the WoL after she defeats Titan, and shortly afterwards gets Eorzea to surrender due to the looming threat of the Ultima Weapon.
> 
> This is just the prologue for now, but the other chapters will probably be a lot longer. My outline for this is so fucking big. I'm a little scared of myself tbh. 
> 
> Gonna be uploading this as I write it. 
> 
> Big thanks to n, who was willing to be my second pair of eyes on this <3

“Think I’d rather be drinkin’ my own piss than watching this shite.”

Marhrl’s da glances at her, face expressionless. There’s nothing to betray what he’s thinking except for a flick of one of his ears, which in the Benzahlih household could mean anything. In this case, it’s a very clear signal for ‘keep your mouth shut’.

Marhrl grits her teeth. It’s one thing to hear about the Garleans subjugating Eorzea in one fell swoop - to joke about it in strained voices and half-hearted laughs. It’s one thing to share a dark look with Baderon when he hands her a tankard of ale and a shake of his head when she tries to shove her gil at him. It’s one thing to hear (and partake in) the angry whispers that circulate throughout Limsa Lominsa.

It’s another thing entirely to watch imperial troops march through the streets. Through her _home_ , thrice-damned though it may be.

The parade of magitek armor and helmeted, uniformed soldiers seems unending. Limsa Lominsa’s streets are narrow enough that navigating them in magitek armor is something of a challenge, and Marhrl keeps hoping that one of them will trip up and plunge into the water below. No such luck so far, however.

The crowd that is pressed to both sides of the street is cheering half-heartedly, mostly using it as a way to cover up the mutterings of dissent. More than one Lominsan is openly scowling; Marhrl can see R’ashaht down the road, looking like she might try to charge the Garleans axe-first. Marhrl won’t lie to herself; a big part of her hopes that someone is going to make a move.

And then the main part of the procession comes into view, and it feels like the breath is knocked out of her chest.

Marhrl has only met Admiral Bloefhiswyn a handful of times, usually on business, and those meetings usually wind up being arguments - arguments that easily could have ended with Marhrl hanging from the prow of the Astalicia, had Marhrl not been a part of the Rogues’ Guild herself at the time. Despite said arguments, however, Marhrl has always been impressed with Merlwyb’s resolve and the way she carries herself. 

Now, she may as well be looking at a stranger.

It might have been easier to accept if Merlwyb were beaten and bloody, a clear sign of what is likely coming to all of Vylbrand. She isn’t, however; she’s having no trouble walking, her head is still held high, and her shoulders are set. She’s walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Gaius van Baelsar, and no one who can see her would initially believe that she isn’t his equal.

But Marhrl - Marhrl can’t see anything in the admiral’s eyes. Nothing at all. It makes her want to puke her breakfast onto the head of the lalafell in front of her.

It’s Merlwyb’s presence that sends a hush out over the crowd. Marhrl should probably care that van Baelsar and Merlwyb are flanked by Livia sas Junius and Nero tol Scaeva, with Rhitahtyn sas Arvina bringing up the rear, but she doesn’t. What she cares about is the fact that there is _nothing_ \- not in Merlwyb’s eyes, not in her face. Not a single damn thing to give her some kind of hope that it isn’t over, that there’s still a chance for them.

Merlwyb’s participation in this charade sends a single, unequivocal message: stand down.

A few feet away from where Marhrl stands with her fathers, a child begins to sob, as though they can feel the distress of the Lominsans rising around them. Once, Marhrl might have been brought to tears herself, but she’s seen too many ugly things over the years. The Calamity, being hounded in circles through the Shroud by the Wood Wailers, and now this - she can feel her heart cool and harden, turning to ice to defend itself. 

She stands, she doesn’t look away from the parade, and she makes herself feel the nothing she sees in Merlwyb’s eyes.

* * *

Rhea rem Faustus steps off the airship and needs to take a moment to pause.

Ever since finding out where her next deployment would be, she has been pestering everyone she knows for information: about Eorzea’s wilderness, its cities, its people. She has memorized the different races that make their homes here and how their cultures differ from their counterparts in Ilsabard. She has memorized the most detailed map of Eorzea she could find. Already, she has heard one-too-many stories about the ‘savages’ that live here.

All useful information to possess. Being well-informed is the first step to climbing the ladder to becoming a Praefectus. It does not, however, prepare her for how beautiful her new home is. 

The trees are tall enough to hang over the walls of the castrum, their leaves a lush, vibrant green so different from the pine trees that Rhea is accustomed to. Some of them are beginning to turn gold, a sign of the approaching colder months, and they flutter gently in the breeze. There is something off-putting about the smell. It takes a few moments for Rhea to figure out what it is, but eventually she figures it out: it’s the absence of the scent of ceruleum, a constant in her life for so long.

Rhea has gotten more than one pitying look from her comrades when she told them of her new deployment, but now that she’s here, she’s beginning to think that she lucked out. 

“This is not a retreat, Pilus.”

Rhea does not allow herself to jump. She pivots to face the speaker - Marcus rem Hellenia, a man whose face she has never seen. He is easier to tell apart from the other Pili only because he is several ilms shorter than the rest - closer to Rhea’s height than the other pureblood Garleans that have been sent here.

“I am aware of that, Pilus,” Rhea replies. She makes sure that she’s looking him in the eyes; it’s an advantage she learned to use early on, as most in the Empire find her eyes unnerving. “However, I believe we will not be receiving our orders for another twenty minutes. Is that not correct?”

Stiffly, Marcus replies, “You may very well be late with the way you’re gawping.”

Rhea smiles sweetly. “Saying it won’t make it so, Pilus. You’d have to make a more direct move against me to undermine me.” She pauses, tapping a finger against her chin, then says, “Oh, wait - you can’t. Your family has fallen out of favor with the Emperor, has it not?”

“You _dare_ -”

“You are little more than a boy treading water at this point,” Rhea continues, heedless of his rage. “You and I both know that the smart play, for you, is to keep your head down until your parents’ execution is... less fresh on the grapevine, shall we say.”

He is certainly one to talk about gawping, since that seems to be all he is capable of now. Rhea flicks a hand at him and says, “I will see you at the briefing, Pilus.”

She strides away from him, her tail waving languidly behind her as she goes. The others who were flown in with her are milling around the yard. Some have already occupied themselves with beating training dummies senseless. Rhea, instead, opts to pick a quiet spot for herself and waits there. 

_Castrum Oriens,_ she thinks, smiling to herself. _This will be my castrum, soon enough._

* * *

It is cold.

Not that that is any surprise - the ceruleum fog renders the northern region of Thanalan perpetually chilly, and Castrum Meridianum sits in the heart of it. The steel walls and floor absorb the cold and send it seeping through her clothes, which are meant for the blazing sun of Ul’dah. Goosebumps creep along her bare arms, but Srinead keeps herself still, her eyes closed, the picture of perfect repose.

She does not know how deep within the castrum she is, but were she to hazard a guess, she suspects she is about half a malm beneath the earth. She does not know how long she has been here; daylight does not reach Northern Thanalan, let alone deep within the bowels of an imperial castrum, and she suspects that they have been bringing her meals at irregular intervals. She eats when she’s given food, she sleeps when she grows tired, and she sits placidly while Livia interrogates her.

It all begins to blend together, after enough time.

They have not given her warmer clothes (not that she expects them to; she knows from previous experience that Garlemald treats its prisoners less-than-charitably). The food they provide is little more than thin gruel and a hunk of bread. It is not enough food to justify her exercising to pass the time; she has to conserve her energy before she starts to burn through her fat stores.

They have yet to tell her anything about their plans for her (again, not a surprise). The only human contact she has had has been questions from Livia about the Echo. Most of those questions are ones that Srinead doesn’t have the answers to, and for the ones she does, she stays silent, staring at Livia impassively.

She knows that the Tribunus’ patience is beginning to wear thin.

Hydaelyn has been silent. The Echo has shown her nothing since her capture. Her crystals of light were taken away from her shortly after she was apprehended, along with her staff and Shattoto’s gem. Ordinarily, she would still be capable of performing some rudimentary spells without the aid of her staff, but the magitek cuffs that they keep on her wrists effectively prevent that. 

She does not know what became of the Scions, of Ul’dah, of Eorzea itself. She doesn't know how her friends in the Immortal Flames are faring, or her teachers in the Thaumaturges’ Guild, or Lalai, or Kazagg Chah. 

Or, or, or.

Srinead sits, and she breathes. She feels no outrage, no fury at her imprisonment. Some part of her realizes that she could allow herself to - the cuffs would mitigate any damage she could cause - but old habits die hard.

Footsteps echo through the cell block; Srinead recognizes the sharp, quick tempo of Livia’s boots hitting the floor. She opens her eyes to see the Tribunus regarding her, her expression hidden by her white helmet. 

“Good day to you, Tribunus,” Srinead says pleasantly. “Shall we get started, then?”


	2. Chapter One: Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got off my butt and posted this! Chapter 2 is already written as well (not edited yet) but I'm hoping it won't take me as long to get that one out there.
> 
> Thanks again to N for being my second pair of eyes on this!

"No. No fucking way. I'll not hear more of it."

Marhrl's da sighs, as though he's the only one having a tough time with this conversation. As if he's the one having trouble wrapping his head around it.

Her father, as always, tries the more diplomatic approach. "You know that Toba knows what he's talking about, lass."

"Does he, now?" Marhrl spits. She turns her glare on her da, her tail lashing from side to side. "How much trouble did you have running away from the J tribe after the empire took Ala Mhigo? You never talk about them, even fondly. Doubt leaving was that hard for you"

" _Marhrl_!" her father hisses. 

"It's alright, Jinh," her da says, waving a hand and looking more tired than angry. 

J'toba Tia is normally the more hot-tempered of her parents, but for this conversation he seems to have run out of his usual fire. Jinh'sae Benzahlih, on the other hand, has been wringing his hands nervously while they argue. Marhrl wonders if he's had one of his Sights since the Garleans came - if, maybe, he Saw something happen to her.

She likes to think that he would tell her up front, but her father has hidden his Sights from her before, usually because he didn't want to frighten her. The one exception, of course, being the Sight that showed him the Calamity.

She opens her mouth to ask him, but her da isn't finished yet.

"Yes," he says, drawing her attention back to him. "It was easy for me to leave the Singing Bluffs. It was easy because I knew my tribe would be safer without me there."

Marhrl isn't moved. She folds her arms. "And how d'you figure that?"

"Because I knew the Garleans would try to conscript me, and I knew they weren't above hurting the people I cared about to do that."

That part feels a little closer to a punch in the gut. Marhrl knows very well that the uneasy, normalcy-is-continuing-but-not-really state of her life will soon end, and then the conscriptions will begin in force. Mostly, it'll be with the intent of splitting up the Grand Companies and shipping them off to different parts of the world, but she knows that they’ll soon turn to freelancers and mercenaries like herself. Then hardworking farmers that are of age, then anyone who looks like they can hold a spear without keeling over.

She’s the right age. Anyone who knows anything about combat can take one look at her and know that she’s an experienced fighter (even if she does keep her knives hidden in her boots). And while she’s not the most well-known bounty hunter in Eorzea, she’s well-known enough in Limsa. Sooner or later, someone will notice that she hasn’t been shipped off with the rest. Someone will be angry, or jealous, or enraged that she slipped through the cracks, and they’ll report her to the Garleans, and...

Marhrl stops that train of thought before it gets too far. It isn't enough to sway her.

“I’m not leaving,” she reiterates. “Where exactly am I going to go, anyhow? Ishgard isn’t going to accept me, even if I do waltz up to their gates and say ‘good day to you, lads, I don’t suppose you’ll believe me when I say my grandmother was Ishgardian?’ Hiding out in Vylbrand isn’t exactly an option. And -”

She stops speaking when her fathers exchange glances. She narrows her eyes. 

“What?” she asks.

It’s her father who breaks first. “Jacke swung by earlier.”

A curse escapes Marhrl before she can stop it. She starts pacing back and forth, flicking her tail in agitation, her ears laid flat against her head. When neither Jihn’sae nor J’toba admonishes her, she lets out a few more choice swears, running her hands through her hair and contemplating ripping it out of her skull.

“Let me guess,” she says, wheeling to face them again. “You were hoping to leave that part a surprise?”

Her da sighs again. “We knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“Of course I bloody well don’t!” Marhrl snaps. “You _know_ how I feel about him.”

“We know that he still cares about you,” her da points out. “And that you might be pissed as all seven hells at him, but you care about him, too.”

There’s a sharp ache in Marhrl’s gut at that, but she ignores it. She stands there, silently fuming, her hands curled into fists, itching to grab one of her knives and fling it at the wall, and yet -

And yet.

All at once, Marhrl sags. She lets her tail go limp and her ears droop. All of the exhaustion from the past week, which has been full of hypervigilance and keeping one eye on the Imperial troops at all times, hits her at once. Tears burn in her eyes but she refuses to let them fall, forcefully swallowing down the lump in her throat.

Quietly, she asks, “What did he say?”

She doesn’t miss the way her father slumps in relief, sinking into his chair. Her da, on the other hand, knows her just a little better. He doesn’t relax.

“He’s taking the Sisters,” he says, “and he’s getting them out of Limsa under cover of darkness tomorrow night. The plan is to hide with your Doman friend at Raincatcher Gully for a few days, then head north to Kobold territory. He wants -”

A bitter laugh escapes Marhrl. “He wants me along to sweet-talk the 789th, eh?”

“He wants you along so that you don’t get conscripted,” her da says, more forcefully. “But yes, he’s hoping your friendship with the 789th will get them to hide you all. He won’t force you to do that, though. He says you’ll all go somewhere else if you’re not willing.”

“And when the Garleans inevitably set their sights on overpowering and subjugating the kobolds?”

“Then you’ll move on somewhere else.”

Marhrl spits on the floor.

Her father is the one to sigh, this time. “You’re cleaning that up.”

“Aye-aye, cap’n,” Marhrl replies, saluting lazily. She laughs again. “Sounds just like Jacke to me - looking out for his precious code and not getting involved otherwise, using the people he knows without thinking about the consequences. If he ends up getting the 789th massacred, I’ll slit his fucking throat."

She lets that threat hang in the air, then asks, "Anyone else going along for the ride, aside from the Sisters?”

“He didn’t say,” her father replies.

“How’re you two planning on keeping up with the rent?”

Marhrl brings in most of the gil needed for them to live in their apartment, and they all know it. 

“I can take a second job if need be,” her father says. “So can Toba. We’ll scrape by, somehow.”

“And when people ask where I’ve gone?”

“We’ll say you got conscripted.”

Well, it’s certainly a believable excuse. It’s the one most likely to draw attention away from her fathers - both of whom are now too old to be considered for conscription (or they ought to be, but Marhrl's heard the stories). They won’t have any trouble faking sadness at her absence, because it won’t be fake at all. They'll garnet sympathy from their neighbors, instead of resentment.

Her throat tightens again. Marhrl clears it, then says, “And if the Garleans figure out that I haven’t been shipped off to fight in their useless wars, and come knocking?”

Neither of them reply to her. They don’t need to; she already knows the answer.

Still, it’s a safer plan than hoping that the Garleans won't come storming into their home and throwing all three of them into a prison camp. They all know that the prison camps are coming, even if they’re not built yet. 

Her da is Ala Mhigan, after all.

It’s the waiting that’s the worst part. The knowledge that everything is going to slowly get worse than just nervously glancing over her shoulder when she walks the streets of Limsa. Everything looks the same on the surface, and sometimes when Marhrl goes to the Drowning Wench for a drink she’ll forget that the Garleans are even here, until she turns a corner and catches sight of a centurion with his patrol unit. Every time she sees some sign of their new Garlean overlords, it’s like someone has thrown a bucket of ice water at her.

Her parents know what’s coming. Marhrl knows what’s coming. And there’s nothing she can do except run away.

There are _so_ many things she’d rather do than run, but none of them will end well.

In a hollow voice, she says, “I’ll clean up the spittle,” and goes to fetch a rag.

It’s just spittle, and it’s mostly soaked into the rug already, so Marhrl blots it up as much as she can and then tosses the rag onto the pile of dirty laundry that sits near the front door. In two days, it would be her turn to do the washing - except she won’t be here in two days, and that'll be one of the many things that either one of her parents takes care of. Her guess is that her da will handle it; her father hates going near water.

_Now there's some irony for you,_ she thinks.

The Benzahlih home is a small, modest apartment in the residential district in Limsa. It’s just one room between the three of them, though it’s large enough that they’ve used folding screens to create their own ‘rooms’, so to speak. Every inch of the stone floor is covered in rugs, most of which were made by her father. When he isn't selling herbal remedies in Hawker's Alley, he weaves. Sometimes he sells the finished products. Other times, they end up as fixtures in their home.

Marhrl’s bed is a narrow cot that’s closest to the door, blocked off from the rest of the apartment by a single screen. She flops down onto it after cleaning up her spit, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of her da wrestling with the stove as he prepares supper for them. Her father is humming quietly to himself, likely sitting in front of his loom, a new, bright red and blue pattern already taking shape upon it. Marhrl feels her eyes beginning to sting again, and closes them tightly.

She won’t miss her bed much. She’s used to being on the road and sleeping where she has to, whether that’s in a tree to avoid nocturnal predators or in a cave to avoid the rain. She won’t miss the warmth of the stove or the rugs beneath her feet, both of which still seem like a luxury after two years of living a nomadic life after the Calamity.

She’ll miss the smells, though - the pungent dye her father uses for his wool, the various spices that her da throws into their meals. The salty breeze that drifts in through the open windows, the faint hint of fish from the nearby market. Marhrl has left her home to hunt down a bounty many a time, but it has never felt this... _final_ , before.

Once dinner is ready, they eat in silence. Marhrl excuses herself as soon as she’s finished. Eating had taken an excruciatingly long time, as she practically needed to force the food down her throat, but she’s suddenly caught by the need to get away, to be anywhere but here. She’s out the door before either of her fathers can respond.

The sun is just beginning to set over Limsa, and Marhrl shivers in the cooler air. Limsa is not in a cold enough clime to see snow, but there’s still a palpable chill compared to summer. She left behind her overcoat in her haste to leave, which leaves her only in her sleeveless vest. Her knives are tucked safely into her boot sheathes, however, so she decides that the cool air is bearable.

A few days after the parade, a city-wide curfew was announced. Gossip from the taverns has told her that the same has happened in Gridania and Ul’dah. Ul’dah has already had a curfew, so the people who live there are already used to circumventing it, but in Gridania and Limsa, it’s already beginning to chafe.

Baderon’s taken to letting people sleep in the Wench if they’re too drunk to get themselves home before the allotted time. Marhrl's feet carry her up the ramp to the upper decks, her body having decided that a drink (or five) is in order. She passes a couple of imperial soldiers on the way. She can feel their gazes on her back as she moves past them. How much of a threat do they see?

Inside, the Wench is as crowded as ever. The patrons, if anything, are even more raucous than usual, but there’s no escaping the underlying tension, or the darkness in everyone’s faces. The laughter is just a touch too strained, and more than one sorry bastard is staring sightlessly into their ales when they’re not drunkenly moaning at their mates. 

A few of the Wench’s regulars nod at Marhrl as she passes. She lifts a hand in greeting, but otherwise makes a beeline for the bar, shoving past a group of elezen who are clamoring for a drink. Baderon takes one look at her, gives her a nod, and a few seconds later slides a tankard of Lominsan ale to her. She leaves a few gil on the bar, takes her tankard, and turns around, scanning the tavern for somewhere to drown her sorrows for the rest of the night.

The tables are all full. Seems everyone has the same idea. She raises both eyebrows, however, when she spies the occupant of a particular table. He’s making like he hasn’t noticed her yet, but knowing him as well she does, she’d put money down that he already knows that she’s there.

Striding over, she plops her tankard next to his drink and says, “Shove over, Riol.”

As she guessed, Riol only grins at her. “Wondered when you’d show up, Benzahlih.”

The others at the table ignore them. It’s common enough to share tables with complete strangers. All the other chairs are occupied, so Marhrl pushes Riol aside with her hip until they’re both uncomfortably squished onto the same chair. It would make for an awkward conversation if they felt the need for eye contact, but Marhrl (after taking a few swallows of her ale) just scans the Wench’s drunkards while she speaks. Old habits, and all that.

“Picked a hells of a time to come back to Limsa.”

She feels more than sees Riol shrug. “‘S a hells of a time to be anywhere in Eorzea right now. Nowhere to really go. At least in the city I’ve still some anonymity left.”

Marhrl snorts into her drink. “Not for long, you won’t.”

“That your professional opinion?”

“My da says so.”

There’s a long moment of silence after that, during which they both focus on their respective drinks rather than the conversation. The ale warms Marhrl up, and she does her best to focus on the burn of it going down her throat, rather than the listlessness that brought her here in the first place.

“I s’pose your da would know,” Riol finally says.

Marhrl grimaces. She's not eager to go down that rabbit hole.

“How’s your sister?” Marhrl asks. 

“Doing alright, all things considered. Her boys are young enough that she won’t have to worry about... well. You know.”

Marhrl’s grip on her tankard tightens. She gazes over the shoulder of one of the table’s occupants, staring at the stone wall without really seeing it. If Riol feels her pressing her shoulder a bit harder into his, he doesn’t complain about it. 

They sit for a while, enjoying their drinks in silence. Having Riol here doesn’t exactly make Marhrl relax, but his presence is something of a balm for her. Riol tends to travel around a bit more often, taking mercenary jobs in Gridania and Ul’dah, while Marhrl largely keeps to Vylbrand. She has no interest in going anywhere as hot or as bright as Ul’dah, and Gridania...

Well. She’s never going back there.

Riol is... solid, if she has to pick a word. He's steady in a way she doesn't think she'll ever be. For years he's been her friend and the best bounty hunting partner she's ever had. Having him here now is more of a blessing than the Twelve could ever give.

Marhrl gets up every so often to get her tankard refilled. She’s had enough practice at holding her liquor, especially when it’s just ale, and she’s already on her fourth drink when she begins to feel a buzz. Riol is still on his first; he always is one to take his time with his drinks. Bit snobbish, for a Lominsan.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to ask. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Probably is. Or maybe she just has issues with keeping her damn mouth shut.

“What happened to Srinead?”

Riol tenses. Marhrl is tempted to stick her entire face in her tankard.

“Forget it. I don’t want to kn-”

“She’s dead.”

It’s what Mahrl has guessed all along, but it still feels like a gut punch. 

Her mind is taken back to the first time she got wind that this nightmare was happening: she was resting in Wineport after tracking a particularly difficult bounty when a runner came through the gates. The lalafell had had a bad leg, but she’d still made it there, screaming about an imperial attack on Camp Bronze Lake.

“The Scions!” she gasped out. “The Scions who were there, they -”

She collapsed in a dead faint before saying anything else, but the words had been enough to make Marhrl’s blood run cold. Still, she held out some hope. If anyone could get out of such an impossible situation, it was Srinead Mlanthi, and if there had been other Scions with her, then so much the better.

Then came the news of the ultimatum. The whispers of the XIVth’s new, deadly weapon. The announcement, blaring through the city’s rarely-used emergency linkpearl system, that the city-states of Eorzea surrendered unconditionally to the Garlean Empire, and that all Eorzeans were subject to the laws of said empire.

Marhrl _knows_ that it all began with that attack on Camp Bronze Lake. Just like she knows that Riol was there at the time, or at least, just before it.

“Fuck,” she whispers, not quite able to keep her voice from shaking. She puts her tankard down on the table to keep from dropping it and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, hard enough that she can feel her pulse through them. She doesn’t realize that she’s gasping for air until Riol pulls her into a crushing hug.

“Chin up, lass,” he whispers, though he sounds just as wretched as she feels. “We’re not done for yet.”

Marhrl might have let out a sob, in any other situation. But what comes out of her mouth instead is, “I’m gonna pluck out Gaius van Baelsar’s fucking eyeballs and feed them to his monster of a weapon. This I swear before the Twelve.” She feels like Nophica would probably be shaking her head at her, telling her off like she’s still a child, but she doesn’t particularly care.

Riol pats her on the back, as though this is a perfectly normal thing for her to say.

She must be drunker than she thought, because she clings to Riol longer than she normally would, and starts to feel sleepy, to boot. Eventually she extricates herself from the hug, and downs the rest of her fourth tankard. She stares into the bottom of it, hoping it will refill itself on its own, because she really doesn’t want to get up right now.

“‘S it past curfew?” she asks. 

Riol chuckles wryly. “Well past it, lass,” he replies. “I’ve got an inn room, if you want to take the bed.”

“Fuck off,” Marhrl mutters, standing. “I’m sleeping on your floor. More comfortable than those inn beds anyhow.”

“Suit yourself.”

She forces herself to stand, abandoning her empty tankard and making for the innkeep’s counter, with Riol following behind her. She flips the innkeep the bird when he smirks at her. 

Riol’s room isn’t anything fancy, but it has a nice enough rug that she’s happy to curl up on. Riol’s out like a light, even faster than her. As she lies there, listening to his snores, she tries not to think about how this might be the last time, for a long while, that she’ll feel safe.

* * *

She’s cleaning up the last of the bloodstains when Y’shtola hears it. ‘It’ being a loud thud coming from the solar, followed by a not-quite-hushed diatribe.

“Gods-fucking-dammit!” The cry is enough to make Y’shtola’s heart twist, but she doesn’t make a move towards the solar. “Again, and _again_ , they take it away from us, and they won’t stop. They’ll never fucking stop. How much more do they have to _take_?”

Another thud, and another. Y’shtola has a feeling that she’ll be treating Yda’s bloodied knuckles tonight. Yda won’t say how it happened, and Y’shtola won’t tell her that she already knows. Just another unspoken wrong tangled in a mess of wrongs.

She goes back to scrubbing at the floor, doing her best to rid the stone of the rust-brown color that stains it. It is a tedious, mind-numbing task, but it is one that she welcomes right now. It keeps her from dwelling too long on what she could have done differently - if she had returned sooner, if she had stayed in Camp Bronze Lake with Srinead rather than teleporting to Limsa to report to Commander Rhiki.

(Srinead chuckled at the time, and said, “Never let it be said that your work is unimportant, Madam Rhul. I am only staying behind because there is still work here - specifically of the adventuring kind, which I am certain you will find tedious.”

Y’shtola blushed. Like as not, they were both thinking of her reaction to Wheiskaet’s trials.)

She shakes herself, realizing that she’s been staring blankly at the floor for the Twelve know how long. It appears that her attempt to mindlessly work through her task has miserably failed. Even so, she begins scrubbing again, more vigorously this time. Slowly, ever so slowly, the stain begins to grow fainter. 

Y’shtola keeps at it until, like all the other stains, there is only a slight discoloration to remind her of the massacre that took place here. She sits back on her heels, surveying her work, before straightening up and heading for the solar. 

The noises stopped some time ago, but Y'shtola knocks anyway. “Yda?” she calls. “May I come in?”

There is a shuffling noise, then the door opens. Yda, with her mask firmly in place, gives her a small smile. “Of course you can,” she says, and the warmth in her voice is genuine. “This is as much your home as it is any of ours.”

They both know that the space is more Minfilia’s than anyone else’s, but Minfilia is not here now, and the solar is a small comfort in a world that has become unfamiliar to them. Y’shtola follows her inside, relieved to see that the room is absent of blood stains. She does spy several newly-healed scabs on Yda’s hands, and deduces that Yda must have taken a potion for them shortly after her outburst. 

Keeping her tone casual, she asks, “Are your hands all right?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Yda looks down at her hands, apparently nonplussed. Y’shtola finds it frightening, sometimes, how good of a liar Yda has become. “They’re alright. I just tripped and scraped my knuckles, that’s all.”

Y’shtola chooses not to point out that no one ever tries to break their fall with their fists. “May I see them? Conjury will work better than potions.”

By way of answering, Yda wordlessly offers both of her hands. Y’shtola examines them briefly - no lasting damage, thankfully, just some skin scraped off the knuckles. She pulls out her wand and casts a couple of simple cure spells, one for each hand, and then watches as the skin knits itself back together.

Yda sighs in relief, flexing her fingers. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re quite welcome.”

“So,” Yda says, and the cheer that she injects into her voice is clearly false. “Where do we go next? Obviously we can’t stay here.”

‘Obviously’, she says, and yet neither of them stopped to question whether or not cleaning up the Waking Sands was a good idea. Were they truly unaffected by what has happened here, Y’shtola and Yda would’ve moved on immediately, perhaps fleeing deeper into the wilds of Thanalan. Instead, they’ve stayed, neither of them able to let go of their home just yet.

“That would seem to be the million gil question,” Y’shtola replies. “One that I do not yet know the answer to.”

“Well, alright,” Yda says, hopping up onto Minfilia’s desk (and how many times has Papalymo chastised her for that - Papalymo, who is missing or dead). “Let’s think about that for a minute. We know that the Garleans have forced the city-states to surrender. So, for obvious reasons, Limsa, Gridania, and Ul’dah are out of the question.”

“Ishgard as well,” Y’shtola says. “For different, but still obvious reasons.”

“Right.”

Y’shtola frowns, sliding down the wall to Yda’s right. “By that same logic, it seems to me that we should also avoid regions where castra are established. That rules out Northern Thanalan, Mor Dhona, Eastern La Noscea, and the East Shroud.”

“Cape Westwind is also a little too close for comfort,” Yda points out.

“Very true. We’ll not be able to rely on the Grand Companies for help, and the Free Companies will be in disarray over this.” Y’shtola sighs, already hating what she’s about to suggest, but - “We... may need to consider fleeing back to the homeland.”

Yda pulls a face, and Y’shtola cannot blame her. She quickly adds, “We’ll save that as our last resort, however.”

But the mention of it has given Y’shtola another idea. “We _could_ consider the colony.”

Yda brightens up. “Wait, but that’s _brilliant_. Well, maybe not great - it’ll be cold and probably wet, but getting there will be difficult for the Garleans. Even by airship it’s a nightmare.”

“Yes,” Y’shtola says, “but we need to acknowledge that _we_ will have difficulty getting there as well. We would need to pass through Ishgard, and as we’ve already established, that is hardly an option.”

“Shite,” Yda mutters. “I mean, uh -”

Y’shtola chuckles, shaking her head. “Yda, if ever there was a time to say 'shite', it is certainly now.”

Yda shoots her a sheepish grin.

Their discussion goes back and forth for a few more minutes; they eliminate any sites where the Twelve are worshipped, as those will almost certainly be either destroyed or blocked off by the Garleans. They agree that taking a ship to Vylbrand isn’t an option either, as the ports in Vylbrand will likely also be monitored by the Empire. Finally, they reluctantly agree to make the Burning Wall their destination, as it would be very difficult for the Empire to take any of their heavy infantry there.

It will also be a dangerous and uncomfortable place to live, but they cannot afford to be picky.

Y’shtola has nothing to pack for the journey. She keeps a modest apartment in Limsa Lominsa, and most of her belongings are still there. Yda is kind enough to lend some of her clothes to Y’shtola, taking the rest for herself. Unlike her, Yda’s things are scattered between her dwelling in Gridania and the cot she sleeps in at the Waking Sands.

Yda departs momentarily to secure provisions for their journey. Y’shtola, meanwhile, meanders through the Waking Sands one last time, and for one, single moment, she feels secure enough to let herself feel it all. 

The regret. The guilt. The shame. 

“I should have been there,” she whispers, and half-heartedly punches the wall. Even just a punch without putting full force behind it is enough to make her wince and shake out her hand. It does not make her feel better. Absurdly, it makes her feel worse, that she cannot bring herself to express her anger as fiercely as Yda.

(And oh, she is _angry_.)

By the time Yda returns, Y’shtola is composed once again. 

“I bought us some cloaks, too,” Yda says, tossing one at her, before pulling the other on herself and shoving the provisions in her pack. “The sun is starting to rise, so I figured it would be better if we had some proper protection from it.”

Yda has spent so long pretending to be the punch-first-ask-questions-later member of the Scions, but it’s a facade that she does not seem inclined to wear right now. She knows more than she lets on about traveling in harsh climes and being on the run from the authorities. The cloaks will hide any distinguishing features, as well as protect them from the Thanalan sun.

“Thank you,” Y’shtola says, pulling her arms through the sleeves.

Wordlessly, they secure their packs, and then head for the exit to the Waking Sands. Neither of them look back.

* * *

It takes less than two days for Ilberd to muster the adventurers in Revenant’s Toll. It takes another day before the road leading to Castrum Centri is completely blocked off, with lookouts posted above the gate day and night. Ilberd isn’t able to coordinate as much of the defense as he’d like; he leaves that to the other adventurers, while he argues with the guild leaders about whether or not fighting the Empire is worth it.

He convinces them, in the end, but it’s a hard fought battle.

Revenant’s Toll is beholden to none of Eorzea’s city-states, and once the news of the surrender begins to spread adventurers flock to the outpost from far and wide. Monster hunting expeditions are called back in favor of setting up patrols to counter any attempts by the Garleans to advance. The scholars at Saint Coinach’s Find retreat back to the Toll, and have already begun debating the merits of using Allagan technology to aid in the defense. 

They are under no obligation to submit to the Garlean’s rule, but as Ilberd watches the adventurers hurry this way and that, he can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. 

Revenant’s Toll is a large outpost, and the harsh surrounding landscape provides an excellent defense, but the adventurers here are not an army, and any loyalty they might have is solely based on hatred for the Empire, nothing more. There’s no sense of shared purpose beyond that.

Ilberd has done more with less.

“Master Feare!” calls a discordantly cheerful voice from behind him. “If I may have a word?”

Ilberd blows out his breath in a gusty sigh, then turns around. He’s been standing above the aetheryte, watching as a group of sellswords returns from their patrol. Despite the tension that runs high in the Toll, they look to be in high spirits. Then again, he thinks wryly, most adventurers are born with that kind of bravado.

G’raha Tia is no adventurer, but he seems to possess the same infallible cheer.

“The answer is still no,” Ilberd says, crossing his arms as the Miqo’te scholar approaches.

G’raha pauses. “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“No, we can’t afford to waste any resources we have on an expedition into the Crystal Tower.”

“Ah-ha!” G’raha exclaims, grinning. “While I can hardly blame you for the assumption, considering my last few attempts to approach you, that was not, in fact, what I was going to ask.”

Ilberd suppresses the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. While ordinarily he would have few qualms about taking the pompous Baldesion scholar down a few pegs, right now he has to be the one keeping it together. No one else is going to lead this sorry lot, and he knows that he needs to at least make it look like he’s a leader worth respecting.

(Not that it ever made a difference in Ala Mhigo.)

“What is it, then?” he asks.

“Well, I confess that I’m unfamiliar with most of the ins-and-outs of Revenant’s Toll, but shouldn’t we be more worried about the eastern approach?”

Now _that_ gets Ilberd’s attention. He frowns at G’raha, who has the gall to actually look unconcerned while the world as they’ve known it crashes down around them.

“I know we’re primarily focused on the western approach, as well as the threat of Garlean airships raining fiery death upon us all -” and here Ilberd can’t help but snort - “but it seems to me that it is possible they may simply... use boats and then approach our weaker side. A simple tactic, but likely an effective one.”

It’s something Ilberd has thought of too, though he has limited resources, and he’s chosen to allocate them where he thinks is best. There is one watchman assigned to the east gate. Ilberd’s thoughts have strayed to that watchman more than once - waiting, wondering, if the call will go out, if all their preparations will be for nought...

“And what do you propose we do about it?” he asks.

A wicked gleam appears in G’raha’s eyes.

“How much do you know about glamouring?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still looking for a beta reader for this; if you're interested, feel free to message me or send an ask on tumblr @songofdefiance.


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